


The One Where Dean Panics Over His Crush

by Moorishflower



Series: A Cold Academic Hell [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:12:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanksgiving break sucks, and finals week (approaching at an alarmingly fast rate) sucks, and his brother's mysterious issues suck, but at least Dean's not obsessing over his non-existent relationship with his hot, surprisingly sweet advisor. Oh, wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Dean Panics Over His Crush

Over the Thanksgiving break, Dean considers the situation he’s gotten himself in.

He refers to it as a “situation” because there’s really no other word he can think of that encompasses precisely how he feels about having Castiel Novak as, not only his advisor, but his really, _really_ hot professor. “Situation” implies that it’s a problem, but not one that’s beyond solving (like “disaster” or “calamity”). “Situation” makes it sound professional, which it is going to _stay_. So, he’s going with calling it a situation, instead of calling it “his god-awful high school authority figure infatuation”.

Even though that’s sort of what it is.

On the nineteenth of November, Dean and Sam gather their books and their backpacks and then leave the campus; they pass hundreds of students on the way, loading their belongings into cars, into trucks, their parents helping them, sometimes, but other times it’s just them, or maybe a friend or two, holding a box while the other person struggles to get the trunk of their car open. Dean’s glad that he and Sam have always lived nearby, that the campus is only a short, ten-minute walk from their apartment. It makes leaving for break so much easier.

Thanksgiving break, Sam says, is like the Spam of the college breaks. It’s _almost_ a real break, just like Spam is made of stuff that might _almost_ be meat, but beyond that it isn’t good for much other than making you overeat and preventing you from moving a lot because you feel so goddamn _heavy_ afterwards. Dean, he says, has never experienced any break before, let alone a Thanksgiving break, and that he’ll understand once he’s gone through two or three of them.

“Two of them is my limit, dude,” Dean points out. “Associate’s degree, remember? Two years.”

“You know I’m going to try and change your mind on that.”

“It’s not like we have a ton of money to waste on my education.”

“I don’t think it’s a waste if it’s paying for college.”

“Sam, just…drop it.”

That conversation sets the mood for the entire break. Sam is a combination of sullen and preachy, and Dean is irritable and distant, thinking about finals (he’s not looking forward to the final in the Psych class he shares with Sam, but the Bi Sci one will be a piece of cake – Dean’s not a genius, but he doesn’t have a lot of trouble figuring out how things work, and that’s really what Biology is all about), but, mostly, thinking about what will happen when he goes back for Spring semester. He still has an entire month and a half to decide how he’s going to deal with this. Is he going to be cool? Calm, and professional? That would be best, wouldn’t it? Even though there was that moment, sitting in that cramped little cubicle, when Castiel had said, _I cannot say that I regret it_ , and Dean had noticed that his glasses didn’t take away from the blueness of his eyes…

“Dean, are you ready?”

“Huh?” Dean shakes his head, and Sam makes an affectionately exasperated noise.

“To go _shopping_.”

Dean scrubs his palms over his cheeks, trying to convince his brain that he is, in fact, _here_ , not sitting in a cubicle with his knee pressing up against the leg of the most gorgeous guy he’s seen in years. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Shopping. Right. Thanksgiving is in a few days, which means that Sam wants a turkey, and stuffing, and all sorts of extraneous stuff that means more good food in the end, but a lot of preparation and work in the meantime. In the past, before their father died, Thanksgiving had always amounted to a bucket of extra crispy and maybe one of those microwave apple pies you could get at pretty much every convenience store, or, if they were _really_ lucky, if they had enough cash, and if they happened to be close to one, a pie from Marie Callender’s.

Sam liked pies that had names like banana crème and coconut meringue. Dean liked apple, and cherry, and blueberry, and, sometimes, strawberry-rhubarb, if it was well-made and in season. All of this still holds true.

“Then let’s go,” Sam says, and Dean shrugs his jacket over his shoulders.

“Fine, fine, I’m coming. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Maybe if you were, you know, _on time_ for once…”

“Hey, don’t drag my academic career into this.”

“You were forty minutes late!”

And on, and on, all the way to the grocery store, where they continue to bicker over things like what size turkey they should get (Dean says large, Sam says medium to small, since it will only be the two of them – Dean wins that particular argument by citing exactly how much he can eat in one sitting, and how awesome turkey sandwiches are), and what kind of stuffing, the kind that gets really crispy or the kind that stays soft and fluffy, and should they get sweet potatoes?

“What the fuck is a sweet potato?”

“It’s orange and you put marshmallows and cinnamon-butter on it. You like it.”

“That’s a _potato_?”

Until finally they’re loaded down with food, so much that it seems like they won’t be able to fit all of it into the Impala, but she obliges, as always, with copious amounts of space in her trunk, and so they drive back to their apartment, discussing what they’ll do with the food, how they’ll cook the turkey (“Deep fry it?” Dean suggests, and, “No,” Sam immediately says, nose wrinkled in horror), and, once, Sam suggests (hesitantly), “Should we call Jessica?”

“You two broke up.”

“But we’re still friends.”

“You _broke up_. She lost her holiday privileges when she decided you weren’t good enough.”

“That’s not what happened…”

But then Sam sees Dean’s expression, thunderous and displeased, and so he doesn’t say anything else. Logically, Dean knows that Jessica is a nice girl, and maybe someday she’ll be willing to actually commit to someone – maybe she’ll even end up going back to Sam (though Dean doubts it). But, right now, she’s the woman whose loss made Sam miserable for two straight months, so Dean is less inclined to feel charitable towards her.

By the time they get back to the apartment, and get all their groceries out of the trunk and the back seat and into the kitchen, the conversation has picked up again, reverting back to easy, thoughtless banter, slights against each other’s masculinity, name-calling, laughter. Dean tries to balance a sweet potato on his head while Sam makes nervous, hilarious noises of worry. He feels oddly invincible when he manages to hold the thing up for almost a minute and a half.

They put the turkey in the freezer for the time being, and then Sam invites Dean to play a round of Halo with him, and, for at least a few hours, Dean is able to sit and not think about the future, about how much money he may or may not be wasting on his own college degree, about Sam and Jessica, about blue eyes and glasses and long, elegant fingers.

For at least a few hours he is comfortably, blessedly blank.

~

After Thanksgiving dinner is over, after the turkey catches fire (only on one side, and they put it out really quickly, so everything underneath is still edible) and the sweet potatoes are pretty much entirely gone, Dean remembers Castiel and, this time, he can’t get the guy out of his head.

He tries. He really does. He tries to play video games and do schoolwork, and he tries to go out and work on his car (his baby is always deserving of a tune up, _always_ ), he tries to engage Sam in conversation about meaningless, everyday pleasantries.

(“So, did you ever go to meet that Gabriel guy?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re making it sound like he lured you into his candy cottage and tried to shove you into an oven.”

“I said I _don’t_ want to talk about it.”)

None of it works. Maybe for a few minutes he’s allowed to think of something other than blue eyes and glasses and long fingers, but then something – even the smallest thing – will remind him: a flash of color on Call of Duty, a sound, even the smell of dryer sheets as Sam carries his clean laundry out into the living room in order to fold it. _Castiel probably smells like fresh linen_ , Dean thinks, and realizes, rather abruptly, that he has a problem.

“I have a problem,” he says, and Sam looks up from pairing his socks, brow furrowed.

“Oh God. Is someone dead?”

“What? No.”

“Pregnant?”

“ _No_ , Jesus Christ, Sammy.”

“Well, I mean, that’s not exactly an encouraging way to start a conversation.”

“Your _face_ isn’t encouraging.”

Sam laughs, picking up a pair of boxers and neatly folding them in half, and then in quarters. Dean has an odd moment where he wonders when Sam started buying his own boxers – when he started wearing boxers at _all_. Didn’t Dean used to buy him briefs?

“So, what’s the big problem?” Sam asks, and Dean shakes his head, dragging his attention back to Sam’s face, instead of his weird, immaculately folded laundry.

“What’s your opinion on, uh…interoffice relationships?”

“What?”

“Dating someone who works with you.”

“I know what it means, Dean, but I can’t really imagine you dating Bobby. Or Ellen, for that matter.”

“Not _me_ , I just mean…in general.”

“Oh.” Sam pauses in his folding, as if deep in thought. His hands rest, perfectly still, in the middle of his lap. “I guess I don’t really feel one way or the other about it. I mean, if it works out, that’s awesome, but if it doesn’t work out it could be weird.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean chews on his bottom lip. “What about…a teacher dating a student?”

Sam makes a noise of discontent.

“I don’t mean in like, high school,” Dean clarifies, and some of the disgust smoothes from Sam’s expression.

“You’re talking about a professor and a college student? It’s…hard for me to say. I mean, on the one hand, I don’t really approve because of the potential for abuse in the relationship. Trading sex for better grades, that sort of thing. But, on the other hand, if both people are adults, and they’re both consenting…And as long as the relationship stays off campus, I guess there’s really nothing I can say about it. Most colleges don’t allow that sort of thing, though. Why? You know someone who’s dating a professor?”

“No,” Dean says. His mouth is dry. “Just curious.”

“So what’s your problem, then?”

Dean swallows, and turns back to Halo 2. “My problem is that you’re sitting there folding laundry while there are aliens to fight,” he says. “Hurry up and finish.”

Sam laughs. _He’s so fucking innocent sometimes,_ Dean thinks. Sam is good at telling when people are lying…but there’s no part of him that thinks there’s a reason for his own brother to lie to him. So, when Dean says that he’s “just curious”, Sam believes him, without question.

It’s a little bit frightening, but also a relief. It means that Dean still has some time to figure this clusterfuck out on his own.

Of course, it also means that Sam probably isn’t going to be much help.

Dean is just going to have to live with it…and really, it’s not like he’s made a decision yet. He still has the option of forgetting (or at least repressing) this whole “hot for teacher” urge he’s been having.

Except, a day after Thanksgiving, Dean hunts through the advising website until he finds Castiel’s email address, and then, in a moment of insanity, he types something up that’s along the lines of _Hey, noticed you’re going to be my professor next semester, hope your holiday was good_. He’s not even sure – he sends it without looking at it, and when Sam asks him, later, why he’s so anxious (“Jesus Christ, Dean, why are you _pacing_?”), Dean tells his brother that he’s worried about finals. Which is sort of true, but not the _whole_ truth, so he feels a little bit better by not feeding Sam another one hundred percent outright lie.

Still, when he gets an email back the next day, he feels some of the tension in his spine ease.

 _Dear Dean,_ it says (and Dean feels a minor thrill run through him at the use of his name. Not Mr. Winchester, but _Dean_ ), _Thank you for taking the time to email me. I have spent much of the holiday working on an article for a journal of psychology and spending time with my cat. I hope that your break has been as productive, and I look forward to teaching you in the spring._

 _Regards,  
Castiel Novak_

Dean stares for a long time at the email, repeating parts of it in his head. Working on an article. Working on an article for a _journal_ \- and a journal of psychology, no less. Dean reads those words over and over (conveniently ignoring the part about a cat – he fucking hates cats).

Later, when he’s sure that Sam isn’t in the house – either gone to the store, or to the mall – he takes a nice, long, _hot_ shower, and he jerks off to the mental image of Castiel sitting, shoulders hunched, and scribbling things down in a notebook, of Castiel sitting in front of a laptop, typing, occasionally lifting his hand to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

It’s at that point that Dean realizes that he is totally, utterly screwed.

~

Thanksgiving break ends, and Dean realizes that Sam was right – Thanksgiving might be a break, but it is _the_ most unsatisfying break imaginable. Like getting Spam when all you’d really wanted was a decent steak. He goes back to campus on Monday morning feeling like all the sleep he’s been getting over the past week is next to useless, and, on top of that, the threat of finals still looms over him – over _everyone_ \- making it harder for him to concentrate during the day. He’s not sure how Sam manages it – Sam, who looks calm and collected whenever Dean sees him during the day, who talks cheerfully about things other than homework and papers and finals when they go home together at night.

Dean feels like a nervous wreck.

“Go and talk to Mr. Novak,” is Sam’s suggestion, and it is the _stupidest_ suggestion Dean has ever heard, but it’s not like he can just come right out and say that, can he? Because then Sam would want a reason why, and Dean would have to struggle to explain his completely inappropriate infatuation on the guy (which has only been exacerbated by the exchange over break, and never mind that it was only one email, and Dean had somehow managed to keep the tone of it completely respectful), and the whole thing would just be painful and humiliating, and Dean doesn’t want to go through it.

So he says, “What?”

Sam rolls his eyes, exhaling harshly, like an angered hippopotamus rising from the depths of a deep river, blowing water as it goes. “That’s what they’re there for, you know.”

“No, that’s what the student health center is there for. They’ve got a psychiatric…section. Thing.”

“Sure, but advisors are trained psychologists.”

 _Journal of psychology,_ Dean thinks. _Oh God._

“I don’t want to bother him,” he says quickly. “And also? I don’t need a psychologist.”

“Technically, you don’t need a _psychiatrist_.”

“What?”

“Well, there’s a difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist…”

Dean groans, burying his face in his palms. The lunch rush eddies around them, a river of students carrying pizza, Chinese food, sushi, and pre-made salads in little plastic containers that have a secret compartment for your salad dressing packets. Dean knows this because Sam gets salads all the time, and this is because he’s secretly some kind of freakishly large rabbit.

“I don’t really care either way,” he says, “because I’m not going.”

Dean peeks up just in time to see Sam’s brow furrow. His forehead looks like two worried tectonic plates smashing together. He quickly hides his face again, but it’s too late.

“Dean,” he hears Sam say. “You’re stressed. It’s your first year, your first round of finals. You’re allowed to need someone to talk to.”

“I have you, don’t I? You’ll listen to me bitch about tests.”

“Yeah, but I’m not a trained professional.”

“So?”

Sam sighs, again. If it were possible to invent some sort of perpetual disapproval machine, Dean’s pretty sure that Sam would be at the forefront of the project. “ _So_ , I’m worried.”

“You’re always worried.”

“I sort of have the right to be, don’t I? I’m your brother.”

“Yeah, my _brother_ , not my nursemaid. And since when are _you_ the one who looks out for _me_?”

“Dean...”

“There is some freaky role-reversal shit going on here and I don’t like it.”

“ _Dean_.”

“ _What_ , Sam? What?”

“You’re going to be late for class.”

Dean glances down at his watch. “ _Shit_ ,” he says, and then grabs for his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder and wincing at the _thump_ of books inside, but unable to do anything about it because he’s too busy rushing out of the student center, heading for English fifteen (a class that he doesn’t enjoy, and doesn’t understand why he has to take it – his English is just _fine_ , thanks).

As he jogs down the sidewalk, though, he can’t help but think about what Sam had said.

 _Go and talk to Mr. Novak_.

Maybe…maybe all Dean needs to do is see Castiel – no, _Mr. Novak_ \- in a professional capacity. Maybe then his brain will realize the mistake it’s made, and his infatuation will go away.

Maybe.

~

There are roughly two weeks between the end of Thanksgiving break and the beginning of winter break, and Dean spends half of the first week debating over whether or not his increasing agitation over the thought of finals is worth doing _anything_ about, let alone going so far as to go and see Castiel. Eventually, though, he wakes up one morning only to discover that his first class of the day has been cancelled, but, instead of rolling over and going back to sleep, he goes and makes himself a pot of coffee and _studies_.

Obviously, something is wrong with him. He logs on to the school network and schedules a meeting with Castiel as soon as he realizes what he’s doing. Friday at three.

Then he goes back to bed, but is entirely unsuccessful at sleeping. That, more than anything else, convinces him that he’s made the right choice. He’s losing sleep over finals, and he’s losing sleep over his weird one-sided _thing_ with Castiel, but maybe by making the appointment he’s ensured that at least one of those problems will be resolved, and maybe he’ll sleep a little easier tomorrow night.

Friday’s classes blur by. Something in English about a final paper – no problem, Dean will get the details from someone else in the class and he’ll write it over the weekend – and endless notes in Psych, but at least the subject matter is interesting, and Dean can get into it. Helping people understand their own brains, that sort of thing. By the time he finishes with his classes at 2:30, it feels as though something in his chest has eased, and for a little while it feels as though he might actually be worrying over nothing. Finals are just glorified tests, aren’t they? And Dean’s done well on all the tests he’s taken so far. Less well on the papers, but he’s always known that he’s not exactly the literary type.

…Unless it happens to involve watching _other_ people write papers – specifically, blue-eyed, glasses-wearing people – in which case Dean is all for…

He shakes his head as he pauses at the start of the hill that leads up to the dorms and the advising center. It’s cold, but he doesn’t notice (Sam’s the one with thin skin, not him), and, taking a deep, fortifying breath, Dean begins the long hike uphill.

His breath freezes on his lips as he walks, clouding around his mouth, and he inhales the tiny ice crystals, feeling them burning the inside of his lungs. Dean likes the cold. He isn’t like Sam, who prefers dryness and sunlight – Dean likes the snow, and the rain, and the wind. He likes inclement weather because, back in Kansas, it had allowed him to go for long walks in the rain or the wind, and it was rare when he encountered more than one or two other people. Dean had liked walking in that silence, that complete lack of human sound. It’s sort of similar, here. Not quite, but almost.

He reaches the midpoint of the hill, where the administration building sits, settles, creaking like old bones in the cold. He breathes out one more time, remembering how he had done the same thing when he was a kid – breathing out and watching his frozen breath stream through the air, pretending he was a dragon. Then he rubs his hands briskly together, and pulls open the front door, and steps inside.  
The administration building is like a big house on the inside, all plush carpets and tastefully framed landscapes hanging on the walls. Dean gets the feeling that it’s meant to be grand, but still welcoming…but the overall effect doesn’t really reach that far, falling short of grandeur and landing somewhere in the realm of “just plain weird”. Dean likes it, though, sometimes, when he’s in the mood to be surrounded by nice carpets and even nicer couches. The only thing that would make the place better is if they let you actually lie down on the couches, but the last time Dean had tried that he’d been glared at so hard he’d thought his head might catch fire.

Still, the place is nice to look at, right up until you get down into the basement where the advising center is. Then it’s all cubicles and the smell of a lot of people sitting in one room together, and it’s warm but not warm like blanket-warm or heater-warm. It’s _body_ -warm, and that sort of freaks Dean out, now that he has a chance to think about it. He’s not a fan of a ton of people in confined spaces. It’s not _bad_ , not like a phobia or anything, it’s just a preference for empty elevators and stairwells.

He makes his way through the rows of cubicles, and he passes, at one point, Gabriel’s tiny office. He’s not in, but his floor is covered with what look like paper footballs, and sitting on his desk are three boxes of Christmas-themed chocolates. Dean sees a picture of a chocolate Santa before he passes by entirely. He passes another cubicle, this one containing a blonde girl and an older man. Dean knows the girl – not her name, but he’s seen her around campus – but the man is a stranger to him. Dean wonders how many advisors the college actually employs, and how many students get assigned to them.

And then he’s standing in front of Castiel’s cubicle, as neat and spotless as it was the first time, and Castiel is sitting at his desk. He has an Apple laptop open in front of him and, as he types, he chews gently on his bottom lip. Dean’s mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton.

“Uh,” he says, intelligently, and Castiel glances up from his laptop. He doesn’t smile (Dean gets the feeling that Castiel doesn’t smile all that often), but his expression can’t be mistaken for anything other than pleased.

“Dean? I’m glad you came. Please, come in and take a seat.”

Dean skirts around a pile of books stacked precariously next to Castiel’s desk – they’re the only things in the cubicle that look out of place, but they’re also somehow comforting. Castiel isn’t this neat and orderly all the time. He piles stuff up, too, just like Dean does…though, with Dean, it’s less likely to be books and more likely to be pizza boxes or car parts, but still.

“You sound sort of surprised,” Dean says, and Castiel glances at him. The surprise has moved from his voice to his eyes.

“When you made your appointment, you specified that it was to be a counseling session, rather than an advisory one. Most people don’t do that, and even those who do…well, they don’t always come.”

“I can understand that,” Dean mutters, and then, slightly louder, “I’m really only here because of my brother.” That’s a lie, but as long as he doesn’t admit to it, Castiel never needs to know that Dean is here because it was either this, or jerk himself off into a coma.

“Your brother is worried about you?”

“Yeah, but Sam worries about everything. Me, global warming, whether or not there are sardines on his pizza. Everything.”

“I see. Are you worried about yourself?”

Dean shrugs uncomfortably. Castiel’s intense, blue-eyed stare is making him feel…well, “less than chaste”, to put it one way. “I mean, I guess I’m nervous about finals.”

“Understandable. This is your first year here, but I assure you, they’re essentially no different from the tests you took in high school.”

Dean winces. “I, uh. Didn’t go.”

“Pardon?”

“I didn’t go to high school. Well, I went for maybe a year, but I never finished. I got my GED when I was seventeen, instead.”

“I see.” Christ, why hadn’t Dean thought of that? There’s definitely no way that a dude like Castiel could go for someone like Dean, someone who never even finished high school, someone who got into college because of sheer _luck_.

Castiel is staring at him, Dean can _feel_ it.

“Did your family move around a lot?”

Dean glances up, blinking. What? “Uh, yeah, we did. Home base was Kansas, but our dad didn’t like staying in one place for too long. We went on road trips. That’s what he called them, anyways. Spend a week in Arkansas, two weeks in California, maybe a month in Ohio. Sam went to high school every single day, even if we were only there for a week or two. I just got sick of it, after a while. My dad taught me how to fix cars, and that was enough.”

“Then why are you here?”

Dean shrugs. “Sam, mostly. He convinced me to take the SATs, and then he convinced me to apply to a bunch of places. I got in, somehow.”

Castiel glances at his computer, and then clicks a few links, and then a few more. Dean sits there, feeling like he’s stewing in his own sweat. _That_ nervous.

“Your SAT scores were very good,” Castiel says. He doesn’t sound surprised, which is…weird. Sam had sounded surprised when Dean told him his scores.

“Average, I guess. Nothing special.”

“I would disagree.” Castiel turns back towards him, his hands neatly folded in his lap. “I think you’re far more intelligent than you give yourself credit for. Perhaps a bit impatient, but some of the best people are. And, quite honestly, I believe that your worries about final exams are completely unfounded. Have you checked your grades recently?”

Dean blinks. “You can do that?”

“Many professors allow you to access your grades through Portal. I can show you how, if you’d like. I’m sure at least one of your classes has your current grade available.”

“Uh…” Dean isn’t sure he wants to know. What if Castiel is just messing with him? But still… “Sure. I mean, if you’ve got the time.”

“I have nothing but time when it comes to my students.” There’s warmth in Castiel’s voice that makes Dean shift in his seat, vaguely uncomfortable, vaguely happy. “If you’ll move a little closer, I can show you where to go on Portal.”

 _Move a little closer_. Dean swallows. Castiel doesn’t mean it – really _obviously_ doesn’t mean it – in any way that isn’t professional, but still, hearing his voice say _those_ words…

Dean scoots his chair a little bit closer, until their legs aren’t just touching, until they’re actually pressed together. “Sorry,” Dean says, and tries to find a position that doesn’t involve almost groping his advisor. He fails. Miserably. Castiel nods at him, eyes sympathetic.

“I apologize for the lack of room,” he murmurs, and then directs Dean’s attention to his laptop with a nod of his head. “Now, I assume you already know how to log in to Portal. Once you’re there, select the class you want to view your grades for from the side menu…”

Castiel guides him through the process of selecting a course, navigating to the page that will let him view his grades, which links to click and how to read the results. According to Portal, three of Dean’s five classes have his grades up.

 _A-, B, B+_ , the pages read, alongside a list of the assignments that Dean has completed, and which ones have yet to be assigned. His lowest grade, the B, is in English 30. Dean’s always known that he’ll never be the next Shakespeare – still, he’s surprised by how high his grades are. Castiel looks at him, eyes crinkling like he’s smiling even though his lips only twitch.

“You see? Your grades are excellent. You’ve nothing to worry about, and I’m certain that all of your professors can see what a diligent student you are.”

“I haven’t really been checking to see if I’ve been doing good,” Dean admits softly. “Mostly just…checking to see if I passed the assignment or not.”

“Well, now you know. Based on what I see here, finals will be no trouble for you, Dean.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, and then, hesitantly, adds, “Mr. Novak.” Testing.

“Please,” Castiel says. “Call me Castiel. I have recently realized that the way I conduct myself might be perceived as overly formal. I am hoping that allowing my students to use my given name will make them more comfortable around me.”

“Oh,” Dean says faintly, and, just like that, one of his worries is assuaged, and the other is only made worse.


End file.
